


To the Nines

by flashforeward



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Mission Fic, Trans Illya, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 14:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6473263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashforeward/pseuds/flashforeward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With their decoy hospitalized, Illya and Napoleon have to take desperate measures to keep the mission going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Red Dress

The silence that hangs over them is the sort of silence Illya hopes won't break. He knows what Napoleon is going to say, knows that given the situation it is the next logical step, but until the words are out he can pretend he doesn't have to. He can pretend it hasn't come to this.

 

But Napoleon meets his eyes, holds up the dress, and breaks the silence. "What do you think?" he asks, trying to keep his voice light. "Is this your size?"

 

"I can't," Illya says, choking on the words, gaze fixed on the garment in Napoleon's hands. "Napoleon, please, you can't ask me to do this."

 

Napoleon drapes the dress over one arm, then reaches out and cups Illya's cheek with his free hand. "I"m sorry, Illya," he says, voice soft. "But you're the only one who can." He steps closer, presses a kiss to Illya's forehead. "I'll make it up to you," he whispers. "I promise."

 

Hands shaking, Illya takes the dress from Napoleon and turns away. "You better," he calls over his shoulder as he walks into the bedroom and closes the door.

 

He lays the dress carefully on the bed and stares at it. It's a deep red with a form-tailored bodice and a pleated skirt. The neckline has beaded detail and there's lace trim at on edges of the sleeves. It is, Illya can appreciate, a beautiful dress. And Napoleon is right, it  _ is _ Illya's size. And with Lara out of the picture, they have few options for how best to continue this operation.

 

But this?

 

_This?_

 

He blows out a breath and turns around, staring at himself in the full length mirror that hangs on the back of the door. He'd dressed casually, slacks and a turtleneck and he takes a moment to admire the look of them on him. He turns to the side, taking in the shape of his chest where it presses against the shirt's tight fabric.  The body he fought so hard for.

 

H e glances at the dress again. If he puts it on, he muses, is he betraying himself? If he  _ doesn't _ is he betraying Uncle? Which is worse?

 

He blows out a breath and tears off his shirt, toes off his shoes, then steps out of his trousers. He leaves his clothes in a heap on the floor and pulls the dress from the bed, slipping it on over his head. He keeps his eyes closed as he reaches behind his back and hastily works the zipper with shaking fingers.

 

He opens his eyes and stares at himself, taking in this incongruous image. He has not, as he had subconsciously feared, magically shifted back. He is still very clearly a man. Just. A man in a dress.

 

He cracks the door open. "Napoleon, I don't think this is going to work<" he calls.

 

Napoleon is there in an instant. He presses his lips together and circles Illya, who tries not to shift nervously under his gaze, then stops in front of Illya again and cracks a smile - slightly forced, but Illya appreciates the effort.

 

"I can work with this," Napoleon says. He snaps his fingers and jumps into action, speaking as he moves. "Unzip," he says, crossing to Lara's suitcase where it still rests on the bureau. Illya watches him dig around, coming up with a bra and pantyhose.

 

"And what do you think that's going to accomplish?" Illya asks, unzipping the dress and slipping his arms from the sleeves. Still, when Napoleon hands him the bra, he accepts it and slips it on, fingers fumbling as he works the hooks into the eyelets.

 

"Trust me," Napoleon says. With gentle fingers, he wads up the pantyhose and stuffs them into the bra's cups, carefully forming them to the right shape with his palms. "There," he says, stepping back. He gestures and Illya slips his arms back into the sleeves, pulling the bodice back up. Napoleon steps behind him and zips it back up as they both look in the mirror at the subtle change in Illya's figure.

 

Illya shudders and looks away.

 

"I'm sorry," Napoleon whispers, squeezing Illya's shoulders. "Can you handle a few more small touches?"

 

Illya pulls in a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut, and nods his head once - quickly, before he can change his mind.

 

He lets Napoleon guide him into the bathroom and sit him down on the closed toilet. Eyes still closed, hi listens as Napoleon rummages through Lara's thing, wishing he didn't know what came next.

 

It was one thing pretending he was a woman when his safety had depended on it, when his body betrayed him at every turn. Now, so far from those days, it feels like a backwards slide. Like everything he's worked for is slipping rapidly from his grasp.

 

His skin  _ itches _ like it hasn't in ages and he wants to tear the dress and bra off, rip them to shreds, and never look back.

 

B ut Lara is in Hospital. The mission depends on the woman in this red dress. He has to do this. He can do this. He  _ will _ do this.

 

He opens his eyes. Napoleon is standing over him, waiting, eyes wide and bright with concern. Illya holds his gaze and, after another moment of toying with saying no, he licks his lips and nods again. "Get on with it," he says, his voice hoarse as he fights frustrated tears.

 

Napoleon nods once, presses a quick, hard kiss to Illya's lips, then opens Lara's make-up bag and sets to work.

 

Illya lets his eyes fall closed again, focusing on his breathing while Napoleon works, trying ot distance himself from his body for just a little while.

 

***

 

It turns out it's the hair that's the hardest. Napoleon has learned quite a bit about make-up, it seems, and when he's finished he's hidden Illya's five o'clock shadow, contoured his cheeks, and applied rouge, lipstick, and eyeshadow with an expert hand.

 

Illya  _ can't _ look at his reflection.

 

But no matter what Napoleon tries, he isn't satisfied with Illya's hair. So in the end, he ties a headscarf under Illya's chin and steps back to admire his work.

 

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

 

Illya's just thankful Napoleon doesn't say he looks beautiful.


	2. The Meet

The looks he gets as he enters the restaurant make him nervous. He doesn't get nervous on missions. He has  _ never _ gotten nervous on a mission. But now. Now his skin crawls  and he has to grip his clutch - heavy with the almost comforting weight of his sidearm - tightly to keep his hands from shaking.

 

Still, he makes it to the bar on steady legs, moving on autopilot as he strides past crowded tables and slides carefully onto a bar stool. The bartender appraises him, likes what he sees, and gives him a bright smile, leaning hi s  elbows on the counter to close the distance between them.

 

Illya forces himself to smile slightly, lowers his chin, and looks up at the young man through his lashes.

 

The bartender's smile gets somehow brighter. "What can I get for you?" he asks.

 

Illya likes his lips and is about to respond when a hand slips gently around his waist and a familiar voice comes form behind him. "I'll have a dirty martini," Napoleon says, "and the little lady likes her whisk e y neat."

 

It takes all of Illya's strength not to turn on the stool and demand to know what his partner is doing here. Now. Threatening the mission for Illya's sake.

 

Typical.

 

"Are you all right?" Napoleon whispers when the bartender turns away to pour their drinks. His breath is warm against Illya's cheek and all Illya wants is to turn and kiss him and forget everything that's gone wrong and everything that is yet to come on this mission.

 

He could, he knows. Could finally kiss Napoleon  _ in public _ without worrying about judgment or stares.  _ God _ how he longs to. But he can't. Not now. Instead he only nods once, accepting his drink from the bartender and taking a small sip.

 

"Would you like some company?" Napoleon asks, sliding onto the stool beside Illya, Martini cupped expertly in one hand.

 

"No, thank you," Illya says, keeping his voice quiet and trying to pitch it up. "I prefer to drink alone."

 

"Pretty little thing like you?" Napoleon asks, and Illya hides his flinch with a sip of whiskey. "That sounds a bit dangerous."

 

Illya turns his head and meets Napoleon's gaze, eyebrows raised. "I can take care of myself," he says.

 

Napoleon presses his lips together, cocks his head to the side, and gives a half shrug. "I'll bet you can," he says, then stands and gestures with the hand that holds his glass at a table in the back corner of the bar. "I'll be right over there if you change your mind." Illya nods, then Napoleon turns and walks away, and Illya watches. _Enjoys_ it.

 

The smile tugging at his lips now is genuine, if small, and falls only with the return of the bartender, looking affronted now. "Is that the sort of bloke you like?" he asks. "Pushy and full of himself?"

 

Illya raises an eyebrow at him. "I suppose you think I ought to go for the timid and self conscious?" he asks. The bartender's face flushes red and it looks like he's about to get angry, but Illya isn't done. He leans forward, making this conspiratorial. Their little secret. "Confidence is very attractive."

 

It's a different sort of blush that creeps up the bartender's face now, and he is quick to busy himself washing dishes, moving away from Illya.

 

Good. Finally.

 

It isn't enough to help Illya relax completely - not even Napoleon's presence can do that - but at least he won't have an audience when their contact arrives.

 

Illya sips at his whiskey and hopes the man arrives soon.

 

He _needs_ to get this over with.

 

**

 

This time, when the hand settles on Illya's shoulder, he _does_ jump. A low chuckle comes form behind him and the hand squeezes and its only by clenching his hand tighter around his glass that Illya keeps from shuddering.

 

"You must be Lara." Hot breath ghosts across Illya's neck as the man whispers in his ear and Illya can't stop the flinch this time. The man laughs again and it makes Illya's skin crawl. "Are you nervous?" the man asks, sliding onto the stool Napoleon had so briefly occupied not so long ago.

 

It takes all of Illya's willpower to turn his head and look at this man. Vincent Borello. He has a thin face, bony cheeks protruding under the unhealthy pallor of his skin. His dark hair makes him look even paler, like one might imagine a vampire to look like in a gothic novel. His eyes are a dark blue, small and beady and peering out at Illya from under heavy brows. He looks as unpleasant as he likely is.

 

Illya isn't sure if that makes this easier or harder.

 

He tilts his head, looking down and behind Borello. Napoleon is there, as promised. He's flirting with a nice looking blonde, but it's clear the bulk of his attention is on Illya, ready to move if he's needed.

 

That does make it easier.

 

"I'm sorry," Illya says, quiet, voice shaking slightly. "I've never done anything like this before. It's...," he swallows, blinks, glances at Borello's face and files what he sees there away to assess. "You startled me is all," he finishes, looking down again.

 

"I'm mighty sorry about that, sweetie," Borello says. He lays his hand on Illya's, then gently slides it up his arm. "What d'you think?" he asks, "business or pleasure first?"

 

And the slimey git actually winks.

 

Illya forces a feminine giggle and shakes his head, buying himself a moment. "Business," he says, fighting a shudder at what Borello's idea of pleasure likely involves. "Always business first, no?"

 

Borello grins and rubs at Illya's arm. "Gives us more time for the fun stuff, eh?" he asks, _winking_ again.

 

Illya doesn't even try to hide how nervous that thought makes him as he forces a shaky smile. "Yes," he says, "I. I suppose it does."

 

Borellow's grin flashes bigger for a moment then, blessedly, he pulls back, letting go of Illya's arm. "Now," he says, raising a hand to catch the bartender's attention. "To business."

 

"Yes," Illya says as Borello places his order and accepts his tumbler. He watches Borello's lips as he sips his drink, shuddering at the thought of those lips against his skin. "Yes, to business."

 

Borello sets his glass down, running his fingers through the condensation. "What do you know about your ex-husband's work?"

 

Ex. As if Thrush hadn't killed Karly Ferrin. As if Thrush had not tried to kill Lara before arranging this meeting. As if Lara's death wasn't Borello's end game once she gives him what he wants.

 

Illya nods slightly and turns his head away. "Not much," he lies smoothly. He knows exactly what Ferrin did, what Thrush wanted from him, and why they killed him when he refused to cooperate. Lara knows now, too, thanks to Uncle. But it's better if Thrush thinks she's still in the dark.

 

Illya can play that role. His discomfort at his clothes and being read as a woman aid him now - a nervous widow playing for her life, terrified and out of her depth, placing all her trust in this man. Illya can do this. He has to.

 

For Uncle. For the world. For _Lara_.

 

He can do this.

 

"Well, little lady," Borello says, giving Illya what is probably meant to be a flirtatious smile but comes off as a condescending. "Your husband was doing some very important work. And my company is very interested in utilizing his research." He winks again and Illya wants nothing more but to pop that eyeball out with a spoon, but he just sits and waits it out, let's Borello continue. "We're willing to pay a pretty penny for any notebooks he might have left...lying around?"

 

Illya resists the temptation to ask how much time they would give him to spend the money before terminating him. That would give up the game, satisfying though it would be.

 

"I'm not sure what help I can be," he says instead. "Karl didn't bring his work home with him." This, at least, is true. Not only that, but Karl Ferrin had destroyed his research when he realized what Thrush wanted it for. Illya's job now is to find out how far they've come on their own and find a way to bring the project to a halt before they can make any more progress.

 

Preferably with no more loss of innocent life.

 

"Now, now, how can you be so sure of that?" Borello asks. "Didn't he have a home office?"

 

"Well, yes."

 

"Now maybe your husband brought home some notes and didn't tell you? And maybe they're sittin' in that office just waitin' to be found?"

 

"I... I don't think so," Illya says. It's the same response Lara had given when Napoleon had asked if they could search the office themselves.

 

Borello gives a slow, thoughtful nod. "You won't be offended if I don't take your word on that, will you, my dear?"

 

Illya gives a half shrug. "I suppose you'd like to look?" he asks.

 

Borello winks _again_. "Smart lady," he says, downing the rest of his drink.


End file.
